


i'm not your mistake, you're mine

by cinnamonsnaps



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Autistic Keith (Voltron), Comedy, Drunk Dancing, Lance (Voltron) Has ADHD, M/M, Office AU, they work in an office that's the au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-05 16:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17922332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamonsnaps/pseuds/cinnamonsnaps
Summary: Lance hates Keith. Lance, however, is also a complete disaster."What the fuck, he silently mouthed at the impassive stucco. What the fuck.That was Keith Kogane. That was fucking Keith fucking Kogane, naked and softly snoring."warning: alcohol and lots of drinking!





	1. wasting pity

Lance woke up and immediately regretted it.

His mouth tasted like aniseed and death. His stomach was threatening to somersault itself straight into the fucking toilet. And to top it off, he was the most sweaty he had possibly ever been: the hangover sweats, combined with these thick, unfamiliar  blankets, not to mention the fact that there was a space heater currently roasting his left shoulder-

Hang on. 

Lance gulped once and opened his eyes. He looked at the ceiling. He looked left and came face to face with Keith Fucking Kogane, naked from the waist up, hair an irredeemable mess - or more so than usual.

He looked at the ceiling again. 

What the fuck, he silently mouthed at the impassive stucco. What the fuck.

That was Keith Kogane. That was fucking Keith fucking Kogane, nicknamed Stoneface because he looked like someone had chiselled him from granite and forgot to add any warmth to his expression. Keith “I Chewed Out My Boss And Didn't Die” Kogane. Keith Fucking Hell It's Actually Him Kogane, the most misanthropic bastard Lance has ever had the utmost misfortune of working with, the strong and silent lone wolf of Sales, with all the charisma of a dead rat and about the same level of personal grooming. 

Fine. Okay. There had been a lapse in judgement. Lance got messy when he was drunk, that was a commonly known fact. If anyone deserved the Disaster Bi accolade, it was him and his Equal Opportunity Beer Goggles which somehow turned Mister Worst Idea into Mister Future Husband. There were a lot of vague concepts in that thought, but as Lance closed his eyes and counts to three, he realised the general gist of it boiled down to Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot. Stop sleeping with disasters. Learn some taste. Never drink again.

No, no, it's still fine, he tried to convince himself. This is just a learning experience. Who even knew that Keith was into guys? Just a fun little tidbit to spice up their work relationship, for the low low price of a night of drunken mistakes. 

Keith let out a soft, gentle snore from beside him.

Something was making his head spin. It was either the hangover, the leftover alcohol poisoning, or he was getting bonafide whiplash and concussion from the sudden change of Keith Kogane as a mysterious and vaguely unlikeable coworker to Keith Kogane, bedsheet hog and gentle snorer. Lance looked around in curiosity, absolutely taken by the idea of finally learning something about this enigmatic man.

His eyes drifted across movie posters for slasher films - very cute - and a general overabundance of dirty washing, something that he can relate to all too well and holy fuck, holy fuck, that's a lot of knives, oh boy oh boy that's a very sharp dagger and that one is big and camo and could gut a deer easily and fuck, nevermind, Lance didn't want to find out any more things about Keith The Actual Serial Killer Who I Have Slept With Now Kogane. 

He was going to die. He was going to get beheaded. Keith was going to use his skin as a lamp shade. 

Time to go. Slowly, carefully, he pulled the covers back - oh, hm, did he get into a fight last night or are those all hickeys? Oh they're hickeys that's something he would have to internalise later - and started creeping his naked, skinny legs across the sheets... and glanced at Keith.

Keith glared back, pupils adjusting to the light. There was a second of silence.

“Oh for fuck's sake,” Keith barked, rearing backwards and pressing his palms into his eyes. “You're fucking kidding me.”

 

* * *

 

Lance liked his job. It was easy and fun. He sat at his desk and did his paperwork and took calls, and it was absolutely fine. Soul destroying, boring, and absolutely not suited for his barely functioning ADHD riddled brain, but definitely fine. His co-workers were nice, mostly. Mostly.

Lance liked to have coffee with them and talk about dumb things like reality television and the latest films, because he genuinely liked the connection, and besides, he had great taste in films. There was a little office drama - Lance has never been in a job without it - but the pay was really good for how little he did, and he was settled into the area, and it gave him free weekends. 

And now he had to quit forever and move cities because he went and slept with the worst man he's ever met, and he worked in the same fucking place as Lance. How was he supposed to face Keith the next day at the water cooler? 

Though, in honesty... it wasn't like he'd ever really faced Keith much before this. The man didn't exactly have a warm personality. Efficient, yes. Polite, at least. But there was just something about him which put Lance on edge.

Say Lance is in the middle of a conversation with Allura, the Branch Manager, and Pidge, their resident Tech Support or whatever the hell they do. Just when Lance is properly warmed up to the subject, hands flying everywhere, neck deep in a story about how his second cousin bought a new car last weekend and it's already gone back to the mechanic because he keeps spilling milk in the CD tray, Kogane will pop his head over the cubicle divider and say something like “Shut up McClain I can barely hear myself think”. Or “can you move this conversation to the break room”. Or, even worse, “nobody cares, McClain, save it for after company time”. 

And then that's it. Those were the only words he got from Kogane. No good mornings or good afternoons or “want a cup of coffee while I'm up”s or “how are you”s from the guy. And boy, did Lance try. Like pulling teeth, he wrenched one word responses from Keith one by one by singular, inexpressive one. 

“Did you catch the newest episode of Celebrity House Battle Royale?” he would ask. Turns out Keith didn’t watch television all that much and didn't give a shit about which celebrity just got booted from the Battle House for picking the wrong shade of curtains. 

Lance tried again. “Any plans for the weekend?”

Literally none. Keith didn't seem to have a life. His longest answer was “I need to do a food shop”, which really gave Lance nothing to work with - but he tried anyway. 

“So, milk. I keep running out. Crazy, huh.”

Not his best work, but he was growing desperate. Keith didn't even answer him properly, giving him a noncommittal grunt and looking kind of weirded out - as if he had any right to!

Hunk, the darling angel that he is, often ended up whispering to Lance in worried tones: “Keith never really talks to anyone. You think he's okay?”

Lance had snorted, waving a hand: “if he was lonely, he'd come make friends with us, right? I think he just thinks he's too good for us.”

And so life continued in the office. Lance saved his questionable life decisions for the weekend in grimy dive bars. Work continued as normal. Kogane finished every project with brutal efficiency, churning them out faster and with the least errors out of the whole office, and said about five words total every day.

And then they announced a work night out for Hunk's birthday. Nothing special, Hunk promised, just a nice meal out. Everyone can come. It would be great fun, he said. Let's make sure Keith comes, he said, and Lance had replied:

“When pigs fly.”

Lo and behold, it did indeed start raining bacon, because who else should walk into the restaurant but Keith “Sorry I'm Late I Didn't Want To Come” Kogane, dressed in leathers like some kind of post apocalyptic road warrior, with a crumpled five dollar note in his pocket as a gift. Lance almost felt sorry for him. He was clearly uncomfortable, taking a seat right at the end of the table, eyes darting from face to face, tongue darting out to wet his lips like a nervous dog. 

And then he locked eyes with Lance - and scowled. A deep, serious scowl, eyebrows down at maximum ornery, head tilted forward. Lance went hot then cold then hot again, wondering what the hell he did wrong, whether this was a joke, whether he'd said something out of line. There was so much focus and energy in that scowl that had it been from someone a little hotter and more sociable, Lance would have called it bedroom eyes. Coming from Keith, however...

Lance called it Absolutely Terrifying.

And then as quickly as it came, it left. Keith settled into his chair. Food came. Drinks came, slow and sensible at first, before devolving into a dirty spiral of “let me buy you one” “let me buy you a double” “hey why don't we all split shots”. Keith avoided Lance's gaze, and that was fine with Lance, who tipped back a Jaeger bomb like he was going to die tomorrow.

Enough Jaeger bombs, and he absolutely would. 

And then more shots came, and more drinks, and more and more and more and more...

 

* * *

“Idiot, fucking idiot,” Keith was muttering into his pillow, and Lance felt offended. Keith was HIS mistake, not the other way around! Lance was a fucking catch and everyone knew it. 

“Fuck you” or “what the shit” was what Lance meant to say, but what came out was a very gravelly and sore “fuck the shit off”, which was absolutely the worst case scenario. Obviously his brain was still pickled from the night before and was firing on about two point five cylinders. 

“What are you doing in my bedroom,” Keith asked his pillow, and Lance took the liberty of assuming that he was supposed to answer. 

“I don't know dude, maybe we had a nice chat about the stock market and then you showed me your knife collection, and I slipped on a sock and fell into bed naked- we slept together hombre, come on now.”

Keith didn't move his face from his pillow. Maybe he was asleep again. Maybe he was dead. Lance watched him be dead for a few minutes before deciding that this was a new type of hell. 

“I'm leaving.”

No answer. Lance started scavenging his clothes from last night from around the room, gathering up his jeans, his socks, his boxers, where the hell was his shirt - ah, great, hanging from the ceiling lamp, of course - and pulling them all on in disgust. Whatever, he'd done the walk of shame more than once in his life. He had no shame left to walk. 

He also had no keys. Patting his jeans pockets, he realized he had nothing at all. No card. No driver's license. 

“Hunk,” he said immediately, hitting his forehead. Hunk, that beautiful angel. That large bastard. He had a contingency plan every time they got drunk, and that plan was “take all of Lance's stuff so he can't inevitably lose it when he blacks out because he can't say no to another tequila slammer”. 

“What?” Keith sat up and looked around in panic. “Hunk's here?”

“No, he has my stuff. My phone, my keys, my... Is he here?”

“No.” Keith looked down. “I think I promised to give you a lift home in the morning.”

Lance physically rears back in shock from hearing that. Sure, he'd understood that he'd woken up naked in Keith's bed who was also naked and therefore some kind of verbal contract had probably taken place last night, even if it was something as simple as “yeah?” “yeah”, but hearing that Keith seemed to remember some of the apparent logistics of said arrangement made the whole thing feel just a little too surreal. 

“You remember last night?”

“Barely. You don't?”

“Fuck no. Last I remember was...” 

Lance really thought about it. 

“Dancing Queen.”

“For fuck's sake,” Keith repeated, and died again. He was lost to the pillow. Lance couldn't even contend. “I'm going back to sleep.”

“Um.” Um. “Keith. I'm stuck here. I need a lift. Keith.”

Keith ignored him. Lance dragged his hands through his own hair and tried not to yell. 

“Keith. Asshole. Wake up.”

“If you want a lift, I need coffee,” Keith grumbled, and Lance did a double take. 

“I thought you didn't like coffee.”

Keith didn't reply. It was growing to be Lance's least favourite habit of his. 

“Fine! I'm going to go ransack your apartment.”

 

* * *

Of course Keith didn't like coffee. As Lance wandered through the tiny apartment peering into every room, he tried to put together the little crumbs of information he had gathered about Keith from their time working together. 

One: he came in early and left late. That made Lance feel inadequate, because Lance loved to get the hell out of there as soon as he could without getting fired for skipping. How dare this asshole go so extra just to suck up to management and make the rest of the team look bad.

Two: he was quiet. Why use ten words when one single grunt would do? Lance had already gone over that particular frustration.

Three: he didn't like coffee. He knew this because every time he'd ever stood up and asked “who wants coffee”, Keith never replied. Everyone else did at least once, and he'd already memorised their drinks. Pidge used up half the coffee whenever they were around, Allura needed soya milk, Hunk liked equal sugar and milk, Coran only wanted a splash - and Keith never, ever asked for coffee. His was the easiest order of all. 

Back in the present, Lance was learning something else about Keith: his kitchen was filthy.

Sure, it wasn't overflowing with rotten food and rats, but it was awful. Spill marks everywhere, piled up dirty plates, and a sink full of greasy water. This wasn't just messy. This was the kind of feral garbage that was only caused by two things: an indulgent mother who never made their precious boy do a single chore in his life, or...

Or there was something seriously wrong with Keith's life. 

Whatever. Lance looked away and started searching for clean mugs instead. Whatever. So Mister Perfect wasn't so perfect. Wasn't any of Lance's business. This was something he'd grown past. He'd be the first to admit that his own mother had been a little soft on him when it came to housework - and hell if he hadn't been in a similar mess before he got medicated - but he'd grown past that. He'd disciplined himself into a functional member of society. His kitchen was nice and clean and organised because that was what happened when you left home. You grew up and you learned to do the dishes. 

Yeah. That was it. Keith was just lazy. Probably grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Waited on hand and foot by a butler from the age of three. Lance stirred the coffee bitterly, because if he didn't stop feeling bitter he'd start feeling sorry for Keith. And why the hell would he waste any of his pity on him?

 


	2. loud

When Lance came back to the bedroom, Keith was snoring again. 

He sat gently on the side of the bed with his two mugs of coffee, and watched. Jesus. He'd really gone off the shits last night and decided he was going to get some of that. 

The thing was... when he'd first seen Keith, he thought he was handsome. Strong jaw. Black hair. A very agreeable face, when it wasn't scowling. Lance, being the most popular guy in the office, had been a generous man and held out a hand for this new stranger to shake. He'd expected Keith to make friends with him as one of the only other guys his age in the department. He'd expected things to stay as they had been - Lance being the office favourite, Hunk being his trusty friend, Allura being the terrifying but attractive boss that she was, and Keith just sort of... slotting in, making friends, sharing jokes and numbers. 

But he hadn't. 

He'd taken Lance's hand, said “hello”, and then started working. Like Lance wasn't anything more than an automated message to reply to. Like Lance wasn't worth his time. 

He'd taken it on the chin. Some people are just awkward. It was his first day after all - maybe he was nervous and wanted to make a good impression. Lance would keep trying. He was nothing if not persistent. 

He thought he had made good progress at first, especially when he finally managed to invite Keith out. He had been talking with the others on lunch break when Keith walked past, off somewhere alone, and Lance quickly flagged him down.

“Hey, Keith, we were just talking about going into town on Friday after work and having a beer. Wanna come?”

“Sure.” Lance felt elated for some reason. The nut had finally cracked. “When?”

And so the plan was set. They all walked to a pub together, and it was a really nice evening. 

Mostly. 

Lance hadn't been trying to pay attention to Keith, but he couldn't help it. The man was hunched over his beer like someone was going to take it from him. Conversations were happening over his head, and instead of joining in, he was sat there like a rock. 

It got worse. They were talking about something stupid. Lance was going off about how his mom had sent him a text saying such and such, and how stressful it was, and how he wished she would just give him a break sometime come on mama. And Keith had finally spoken up. 

“I don't get what was so bad.”

Lance stared at him. “Yeah, it sounds nice, like oh my big boy I wish you'd call me you never have any time, whatever. But I wish she'd stop guilt tripping me is what I'm saying.”

“She just loves you, right? Just call her more.”

Lance was getting pissed off. “I do call her. All the time.” He hid his piss and how off it was behind a smile. “You know moms, they never realise how busy you are.”

Everyone laughed awkwardly, sensing the tension, but Keith. Keith just had to barrel on. 

“You can rearrange some time to call her though. Watch less TV and make time for her instead.” 

Lance was stunned. This asshole was here giving him some kind of spiel about watching less television like he was better than Lance for it. Like he knew anything about Lance and his family. 

“Whatever,” Lance finally concluded with a strained smile. “I call her every weekend at least, so it's fine. You know, she actually said the funniest thing to me the other day! I was wearing these old jeans I forgot I had...”

As he launched into a story, the tension faded away - though Keith kept his eyes on Lance for an uncomfortably long time, sizing him up, what would soon be a distinctive glower forming from his brows. 

He ended up leaving early, making awkward excuses about having to get up early - on a weekend? yeah right - and shuffling out of the pub. Lance watched him go with relief. He'd been so awkward, right there in the middle of the group.

Keith didn't come on another night out. 

At least, not until Hunk's birthday.

 

* * *

And now look at him. Face down in a sweaty pillow, hair every direction, neck covered in red marks and bruises like he'd been in a punch up. Lance sighed and put the mugs down with a click. 

“Wake up,” he said. “It's coffee time. The sooner you drink, the sooner I can go.”

“Thank god,” Keith muttered, and slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. He was so naked. Lance took a deep breath and tried not to examine anything he was feeling at that moment. It was only when Keith took a deep swig of coffee and gagged that he started paying attention to his face again.

“I told you you didn't like coffee!”

“I like coffee,” Keith argued, holding his mug away in distaste, “but this is just... awful. Where's the sugar.”

“Wait, if you like coffee, then why do you never drink it at work when I offer to make it?” Lance said, and Keith stared at him this time.

“I never thought you were talking to me when you offered,” he replied. Lance's mouth dropped open. 

“It's an open offer to everyone! Why else would I announce it to the office!”

“I don't know! I don't get that kind of stuff,” Keith groaned. “If I'd have known, I would have asked for stuff.”

This was blowing his mind. Lance drank his own coffee and clutched his head. “Generally when someone announces something, that means everyone is involved - man, did you really think I was the kind of petty asshole who would make coffee for literally everyone but you?”

The silence was stunning. 

Lance nearly went feral.

“Are you kidding? You're kidding, right?”

“This needs more sugar,” Keith quickly said, and started pulling a shirt and a pair of sweatpants on before escaping to the kitchen with his mug. Lance stared after him, stunned.

As he left, he noticed something. A tattoo on his hip which he couldn't quite make out peeking out over the low slung pants, over which was a massive hickey.

Ah. Yeah. Lance did that, huh. 

Taking another swig of his coffee, Lance soberly wondered just how far along the slut scale he'd let himself slide last night. Why didn't anyone stop him drinking? Did Keith care? Would he hold it over Lance and blackmail him with it? Not that there was anything really wrong with that. It was the twenty first century, after all, and anybody who started shaming people for having sex in this day and age was clearly in need of a delicate hammer applied directly to the knuckles, but still. But still. What if Keith was that kind of asshole?

Did he... do the cherry thing? Please say he didn't do the cherry thing. His dignity as a coworker was on the line here.

What did he do last night?

 

* * *

“Hey, did I ever show you the thing I can do with the cherries?”

Lance was very drunk. Not black out, not immobile, but definitely that kind of white girl wasted where everyone was a friend and every music track was his jam. The birthday party had long since moved from the restaurant. There was a balding ginger DJ lazily skipping through Spotify by a rather abandoned dance floor. Lance, of course, had been there for the past half hour, showing up the entire establishment with his absolutely sinful moves, and it had honestly been a really great time. Now he and Allura were at the bar taking a quick rest before getting back into the fray. 

“The cherries?” Allura yelled back over the music. “No! Is it like a party trick?”

“Kinda,” Lance replied, eyebrows wiggling a mile a minute. “Not the kind of thing you'd bust out at a bar mitzvah though. Basically, I take the cherries and-”

And then some asshole knocked into him, spilling his drink all over Lance's jeans. He stopped talking, ready to turn round and give this guy an earful - and realised that of course, the asshole was Keith. 

“Where the hell do you-” he began, and stopped. There was something wrong with Keith. He was drunk, clearly, but he didn't even look at Lance, head bowed down, a single hand raised in apology. Allura surged forward. 

“Keith, are you okay?”

Keith looked up, and Lance gasped. His expression was scrunched up, pained in a way it shouldn't be. As soon as he realised who it was, it was like Keith made an effort to wipe his face clean - but there was still the edge of discomfort on his face. 

“Yeah. I'm great.”

Allura and Lance swapped glances. “You sure, buddy?”

“Yeah. I'm gonna go smoke.”

He stumbled off. Allura stood up to follow, but Lance held her shoulder and shook his head. Something in the line of Keith's shoulders made him think of the kind of broken men who punched when they got drunk, and while Allura wasn't defenseless by any means, the least Lance could do was take a punch for her. 

“I'll go.”

Allura didn't look happy about this, but Lance was off before she could argue, and she only followed him to the door. 

 

* * *

He found Keith crouched against the wall around the corner of the club, head between his knees. Cautiously, Lance squatted beside him, unsure how to proceed. Keith made no motion to acknowledge him, so he decided to start the conversation. 

“You okay?”

“Loud,” Keith blurted out, before clamming up and trying again. “It's a little loud in there.”

“Yeah. It's nice to get some fresh air out of all the people, you know. I get it. Plus the music is kind of ass, right, so you just have to yell at each other, so you get a sore throat and-”

“Please don't talk,” Keith interrupted. Lance took a moment to process that before almost getting up and walking away, until Keith slapped a hand over his own face. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean- you can stay. Please stay. I just really need some quiet right now.”

“Okay.” Lance sensed that perhaps it wasn't personal. “Okay. Sorry. I get nervous in silence.”

“Don't be. I like the silence.”

“Alright.”

They squatted together until Lance's legs got sore, so he shuffled forward and sat on the curb. Keith didn't seem to suffer the same problem. Man must have had legs of steel. 

The song inside changed twice, switching through the genres, and Lance was just starting to shiver when Keith finally spoke up. 

“You can go back in now. I don't mind.”

“You sure? Are you... alright?”

“It happens. I don't really deal well with loud, busy places like this. It just... sets something off in me.” 

Lance violently shivered, and Keith definitely noticed. “I'm being serious. Get back inside and warm up.”

“You'll be cold too,” Lance replied. “I'd rather stay with you and make sure you're not getting mugged or something.”

Entirely too loud all of a sudden, Keith laughed. “And what would you do? You're drunk, Lance. Would you dance them away?”

Lance decided to take it as a compliment. “Yes, actually. Fuck you. My legs are deadly killing machines designed to seduce feeble mortals with a mere scissor kick. They'd take one look at my chiselled calves and nut themselves to death.”

Keith hunched over. Lance suddenly worried that he was in pain, but then he heard laughter. 

“Never. Never say that again.”

“That joke really that funny huh? Careful you don't nut yourself to death.”

“Literally die! Never say this to me again.”

The door opened, and Allura looked around with a worried expression - before spotting the two of them on the floor. Lance gave her a reassuring nod, and she smiled. Nobody got punched, the smile said, and that's the best case scenario for tonight.

“There you are! We were worried. You both look frozen solid out here. Won't you come back inside?”

“Keith?” Lance stood up and offered out a hand. “Let's go warm up.”

Keith took the hand and stood up, avoiding Lance's gaze, but Lance was ready for it. He leaned in and said, quietly: “it's okay. Just tell me if you need to come outside again and we'll come and sit and talk. Or Hunk, since I talk too much. Asshole.”

Keith snorted. “You do. But thanks. I'll... let you know.”

They all went back inside just as the first notes of Dancing Queen started playing.


	3. dickhead

Lance finished his coffee and sat thoughtfully on the bed, picking over that memory of last night. Maybe Keith wasn’t so bad. Personality wise. There had been something almost tender about that moment, out in the cold together.

Keith struggled with busy places. The more Lance learned, the more he realised that maybe he hadn’t quite gotten the full picture when he met Keith. Like there was more to him under the surface than just scowls and being rude. The messy kitchen. The awkwardness. The dislike of noise. Lance was beginning to form an idea, but he wasn’t sure it was his right to. Wasn’t sure Keith would appreciate it.

The sound of Keith swearing filtered from the kitchen, and Lance got up to go make sure he hadn’t somehow spilled coffee all over himself. He padded quietly through the apartment, peering around the doorframe, and found Keith lifting up his shirt and looking down at his stomach, not noticing his silent witness. Lance couldn’t see what he was looking at, but he would bet his left nipple it was a whole smorgasboard of bite marks and hickeys. He dared look at Keith’s face.

There was something strange in his expression. It morphed slowly, subtly, every thought an open book on his face - utter bewilderment, his mouth turning up slightly at the corners like he couldn’t quite believe it - before the smile slipped off, slowly, and an awful, wrenching kind of resigned sadness, but still with that distinctive Keith flavor, that blunt, edge-like sheen. Lance wondered if he’d just watched all five stages of grief in action pass over Keith’s face, and tried not to feel offended.

Dude was clearly working through something big. Summoning from a well of subtlety that he normally completely lacked, Lance walked back silently down the hallway, before downright stomping back to the kitchen to announce his presence.

“Alright, dude, you ready to drive me yet?” he said loudly before he entered the kitchen. Keith was hurriedly smoothing out his t-shirt, his face back to its neutral version of a scowl.

“Fine,” he said. “Give me a second.” And like that, he swigged his coffee back in one big gulp. Lance watched in awe. Throat of steel, too.

“Okay, you’ve had a second. I’m sore all over, I need a shower, and I’m hungry.”

A loud buzzing came from the kitchen table, and they both jumped. Keith quickly swiped up his phone and stared at the screen in confusion, before answering.

“Hunk?”

Lance couldn’t hear Hunk, but by god he wanted to.

“Yeah. You have his stuff, right?”

Another silence. Keith winced.

“His flat keys?”

Lance jerked the phone out of Keith’s hand. “Hunk. My keys.”

Hunk’s voice sounded more than a little nervous. “Um... hi Lance. Yeah, about that... I can’t find them.”

“Hunk. I love you so much and you are literally my husband, but I will actually murderize you.”

“I know, and I get it, but it’s fine. I’m gonna keep looking and if they’re not in my flat or my car or my jacket then... we can go back to the bar and ask lost and found, right?”

Lance massages his forehead before taking a deep breath out. “Yeah. Hey... Hunk, thanks though. For looking after my stuff. I really do appreciate it.”

“I know.” Hunk still sounded apologetic, but his voice suddenly took on a scandalous edge. “So, answering Keith’s phone, huh?”

Lance hung up without another word and gave the phone back to a very confused Keith, who narrowed his eyes.

“Did he... find them?”

“Nope. Let’s search your flat,” Lance replied, and began rummaging through everything. “Otherwise I’m locked out until I can get my landlord to get an emergency locksmith.”

“Yikes.” That was putting it mildly, fucking Keith, Lance thought. “So no food and no shower.”

“Yeah. I’m musty, dude.”

Keith sighed and disappeared, before reappearing with a towel. “Go take a shower. You stink. I’ll keep looking.”

Lace blinked at the towel, then back at Keith, before slowly accepting it. “Do you even have conditioner?”

“Get out of my sight,” was Keith’s response, and Lance knew better than to push his luck, escaping to the bathroom.

It turned out he didn’t have conditioner, only some shitty two-in-one that turned Lance’s hair to straw. This man was living like an animal. Lance almost wanted to rescue him from himself.

 

* * *

 

The shower was as hot as he could get it, washing away that familiar post-alcohol layer of grime and ache. His stomach still felt wobbly, but now he could deal with it while looking like a damn snack instead of someone’s bad decision.

His legs also wobbled. Sore and achey the way they felt after a good workout, but jokes on them, he didn’t work out at all. He just danced like his life depended on it.

Oh yeah. He remembered as the water hit his back that there had been another warmth pressed up behind him, dancing with him, sometimes even laughing in his ear. Wait... hadn’t that been...

 

* * *

 

Keith watched sullenly as Lance entangled himself into the crowd, which had picked up as the night grew into early morning. He looked like he was having the time of his life, twisting his body in sinuous, fluid ways, letting it hang loose in a way Keith never could, dancing with absolute strangers like he’d never heard of being embarrassed in his life.

The music was still unbearably loud. Keith would have to leave soon.

Someone had ordered another round of drinks, and this one was mostly rum with a dash of coke. If that didn’t finish him off, nothing really would - and Lance had nearly chugged his. He was definitely even more wasted than before.

Keith didn’t dance, not even drunk. Keith refused on moral and ethical grounds. Keith could never be swayed from his position, absolute, as the witness of bad dancing, the bridesmaid but never the bride.

Until Lance reappeared to put his empty glass on the bar, and spotted him by himself.

“Need a break?” he yelled, but Keith felt okay somehow. He shook his head.

“Maybe in ten minutes.”

“Good.” And suddenly Lance was grabbing his hand. “Then come dance with me before you go.”

Keith was definitely displeased with how sweaty that hand was, but he really was having difficulty saying no. He was also having difficulty standing, but Lance was way ahead of him dragging him onto the dancefloor before he could so much as stumble.

There is literally nothing more obnoxious, Keith thought as Lance started wiggling to Dancing Queen, than a drunk person’s boneheaded focus on making someone who can’t dance dance. He waved his arms vaguely and received the world’s wonkiest condescending look from Lance.

“You can’t even grind?” Lance yelled, or maybe he yelled over the noise, and Keith shrugged. There was someone’s sweaty back getting his clothing damp, and he hated it. Maybe he’d have to take that break sooner rather than later.

And then Lance took both of his hands and pulled him close until they were in a tango-esque position, and Keith’s train of thought fell off a cliff. It was tragic. Disastrous. There were no survivors.

“Just do what I do,” Lance said, and then did something very complicated and graceful that needed full body coordination and years of practice to pull off without looking like a dickhead. Keith vaguely shimmied in response, somehow unable to turn down the challenge, and Lance laughed so hard he bent in half.

“Close enough!” Lance was dancing again, but this time he was pulling Keith in by his lead, moving his arms into the right place, forcing his feet to work with him rather than against him, and Keith found himself dancing somehow. It was ungainly and clumsy, but nobody was even looking at him. Only Lance.

He’d risen to the challenge, and Lance didn’t look impressed. Amused, happy, but not impressed. Keith wanted to change that. He wanted to push until Lance pulled, until it wasn’t just him feeling like he was treading water.

He twisted his arms until Lance was turned around, hands crossed in a complicated cross, and was trapped between Keith and the dancefloor. It was a move he’d only seen, never done. Somehow it worked.

Lance stumbled, but he understood what was happening pretty quickly, and recovered so easily that Keith would have thought it was planned. Then they untwisted until Lance was back in front.

Now he looked surprised. His move, Keith thought.

They did it again, this time from Lance’s prompting, but when Keith tried to untangle, Lance stayed put, this time leaning back and pressing himself against Keith’s chest, swaying in time to the music. Keith nearly froze, suddenly overwhelmed by all the contact, but he couldn’t be beaten by Lance. He swayed too, letting out a shocked laugh.

They stayed like that, warm, close, while the music pounded. Keith swaying, Lance slowly putting more and more weight on his hips, until the track changed. It was an unwelcome change. Loud, brash, and Keith automatically went rigid, ducking his head into the crook of Lance’s neck to try and block out some of the horrible, awful everything.

“Woah-ho-ho there, bud, this is getting a little-” Lance slurred, before he saw Keith’s face out the corner of his eye and realised it was pure discomfort. “Loud. It’s getting loud again. Hey, I need some fresh air again. Wanna go somewhere quiet?”

“Yeah,” Keith said, and together they pushed through the dancers back to the exit.

 

* * *

 

The rest was a sort of blur to Keith as the rum had finally kicked in full force. There had been Hunk - probably much more sober, and with a very troubling expression - and then there had been a dark place on the way to the taxi rank.

And then suddenly there had been hands all over him, and his hands all over Lance. It had felt inevitable - or, well, it didn’t at first, but the way Lance kissed him made it feel absolutely inevitable. As much as he had been wearing a numbing blanket of alcohol, he’d still felt heat, warmth, welcome against the cold. A long taxi ride, all over each other. A bed. Shoes off. Teeth out. Two cherries.

Wait, cherries?

 

* * *

 

Lance desperately smacked his head as he towel dried it. Come on Lance, think, think. What happened after the bar? Was there a taxi involved?

He stepped out the bathroom and smelled toast, and wondered if he was having a stroke - before spotting Keith in the kitchen with a plate full of toast. Ah. No, just food.

“This kitchen is a mess,” is what Lance said, when what he had really meant to say was “can I have some? I’ll clean up”.

Keith shrugged. Lance decided to roll with it.

“Seriously. Look, I’ll do some washing up for you if you make me some toast. Where are your sponges?”

Keith shrugged again. “I don’t have any.”

Lance stared. “Then how do you clean your dishes?”

Keith pointed to the filthiest dishrag Lance had ever seen, and suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore. “Why don’t you just buy a sponge?”

“I didn’t know that was what they were for.”

“How do you not- It says dish washing sponge on the packet!”

“I never looked at the packet! I didn’t need a sponge!”

Lance sat down, and stood back up again immediately. “Didn’t your mom every teach you how to wash up?”

“No.” The answer was so quick and blunt that it pinned Lance down. He waited for an explanation, but none came.

“... fine. You twisted my arm. In return for a ride home, I’ll clean your kitchen.”

Keith’s face went from blank apathy to sheer confusion in a matter of nanoseconds. “Excuse me?”

“Did you find my key?”

“No?”

“Then I’m stuck here. In this apartment. With no food or clothes. I want to make an omelette, but I do not want to touch anything here. Go shower, and I will clean your kitchen, or so help me I will report you to child protective services against yourself.”

“Fine. Fine! Clean my kitchen! So weird!” Keith yelled, and then put two slices of toast in the toaster for Lance before stomping to the bathroom.

He stomped back and took the towel off Lance before stomping away again.

“Let’s do some damage control,” Lance said to himself, looking around the kitchen and getting that hyperfocus buzz from a real good project dropping itself on his lap. “You big manchild.”


	4. good american housewife

Keith had the shower down as low as it would go without freezing him, because he was feeling feverish. 

The marks covered his body like clues to an unsolved murder. They walked down his chest lazily, gaudily, like they had every right to be there, knowing what they were doing. He traced them down and down, before quickly pulling his hand up. 

Lance McLain was cleaning his kitchen. 

It was just so... Lance, somehow. Not that Lance gave off clean vibes, nor did he give off Good American Housewife vibes. It was just such a weird, thoughtful, annoying thing to do. That was the thing about Lance. He was fucking annoying. 

He was thoughtful. 

Finding new jobs was hard. Not in terms of qualification - he’d done pretty well in academia, all things considering - but in terms of the unofficial part, the social part, the bit where you lubed up the hand you were about to shake with smooth words and then took it with gusto, the bit that other people seemed to be born knowing and he had had to learn by fire. He’d bombed interviews. He’d lost acquaintances. He opened his mouth to say something, and the other person got that look, the one which made him realise he’d put his foot in his mouth again, which made him realise that he’d been rude somehow. 

He didn’t know how to talk to people. 

Sometimes he didn’t want to. He was perfectly content with his own company, always had been, independent for as long as he could remember. Learned quickly that the only person he could turn to in a crisis was himself, so he had to toughen up and become a guy he could rely on. He didn’t need anyone. 

And then he found a job which seemed perfect. It was mostly desk work, so he could scale back the amount of social uptime he spent talking to coworkers back to the minimum amount. It was near his flat, so he didn’t need to rent a new place. It was low effort, so it was easy to overperform. 

And then he met Lance. 

Where Keith didn’t talk, Lance couldn’t stop talking. It was like he had a motor running that he couldn’t turn off, constantly blabbering about something, anything, the weather, the news, last night’s TV, his lunch, his family, his shoes, god he never stopped. He was a handsome man, but Keith couldn’t even contemplate being attracted to him when everything he said was just so much and so little at the same time. 

He kept trying to befriend Keith, but Keith knew how that one went, and wasn’t surprised when he gave up quickly. Nothing in common. Lance was an idiot. A gossip. A flirt. 

Keith was undeniably attracted to him.

Perhaps it was because when they’d first shaken hands, Lance had spent a little too long holding on, making eye contact, smiling like Keith was the most interesting person in the room. Perhaps it was because he heard Lance’s voice all the time, and it had actually kind of grown on him, and he sometimes got weirdly invested in the story if he knew what it was about in the first place. 

Perhaps it was just because Lance was genuinely hot, and Keith was lonely, and he was the only guy in the office Keith could reasonably project feelings onto without feeling weird about it. 

He still felt weird about it. Lance was just so... different. Popular. Funny. Everything Keith wasn’t. So Keith decided to let the feelings fester away, and then when Lance inevitably dropped the girlfriend-bomb (or boyfriend-bomb, he’d never kept being bi secret), he’d just move on and be by himself again and hopefully find a dude who wasn’t a complete idiot to catch feelings for. 

And then he went and slept with him. Of course he did. Some of Lance must have rubbed off on him (and did, in fact, rub off on him last night) because he didn’t even try to say “no, let’s be sensible”. He said “yes”, “fuck yes”, and then some more “yes”es, and now he was in a lukewarm shower dissociating while Lance cleaned his kitchen and a ring of lovebites slowly faded from his neck.

“Idiot,” he said again, to himself. 

To make it worse, it was just a one night stand. Even if he had somehow ended up sharing more than three words with Lance, there’s no way he could have charmed his way into Lance’s bed without the help of some strong drinks. Lance wouldn’t see him as much more than a fun little fling, or worse, a regrettable mishap. In fact, Keith was a piece of shit actually. Yeah, he decided as he finally washed out the two-in-one shampoo. I’m a piece of shit. Bobo the Goddamn Fool. 

He shut off the water and stepped out, and finally felt like he was wearing his own skin again, like he’s a comfortable fit where he’s supposed to be. He could deal with grime, could deal with sweat, but only for so long before it felt like it was crawling all over, before he needed to get rid of everything touching him. 

But after the shower, he was okay. He brushed his teeth carefully, taking his time. Now he was okay.

 

* * *

 

 

Lance couldn’t believe how messy the kitchen was.

He cleaned it though. He cleaned it so good. Turned out Keith had hidden half a bottle of dish soap in the fridge for some reason, so he stole it and went to town on everything he could find. He even had time to mop while Keith took an unreasonably long time in the shower - what was the dude doing in there? - and wash all the dishes. 

He had just started on the frying pan, which was caked on with carbon, what the hell, when Keith entered the room, flushed pink and in new clothes. Clean clothes, maybe not considering his bedroom and the kitchen, but at least they weren’t just-last-night clothes. Unlike Lance. 

“Holy shit,” Keith said, eloquently, and Lance sat down on a chair and admitted defeat. 

“Yeah. You owe me.”

“Can I pay you back in toast or what.”

“No way. Man, your fridge is stocked by the way. You cook?”

“Yeah. My dad taught me,” Keith said, taking the only other chair in the kitchen. “Only how to make an omelette though. And then I had to teach myself.”

Lance laughed. “He wasn’t a good cook then?”

“No, he was dead.”

Lance choked, and stared at Keith, waiting for him to say “only kidding!” or something, but the dude stayed silent, scrolling through his phone with a frown. 

“I’m... sorry-”

“Hunk says he still can’t find your keys, and do you want to go to the bar to ask them.”

Looking away, Lance nodded, scratching his scalp. “Yeah. I kind of need them, unless you want me to be your eternal squatter stealing your food and your hot water.”

“If you want to move in, you’ll have to pay rent.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“No, Lance.”

Lance shrugged easily before stretching out like a cat in the sun. “This is so weird. You barely ever talked to us at work, and now I’m cleaning your kitchen. What happened.”

Keith frowned. “I talked to you.”

“Yeah, to tell me to shut up.” Lance found himself getting genuinely angry for a second, before quickly tamping down on it and turning it into something much more palatable that won’t make Keith think he’s a complete dick. “For real though, you’re always so quiet, it’s like you’re some kind of superfocused robot. Do we all annoy you that much?”

“Annoy me?” Keith really thought about it. “Well... sometimes, yeah. But... Lance, it’s not that you annoy me, it's-”

The doorbell rang. Keith stopped mid sentence despite Lance desperately wishing he could hear the end of it, his face crumpling with confusion, before blanching into pure horror.

“Get in the bedroom,” he whisper yelled, and Lance laughed.

“What?”

“This isn't a fucking joke. Get in there right now. Go.” Keith stood up and dragged Lance up by the arm. “Go! Move it, asshole!”

With a strong push, Lance was being forced back down the hall and into the bedroom he had woken up in, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Lance almost turned round to yell at Keith for being such a pushy dickhead, but stopped when he heard what was presumably the front door open.

“... Shiro! You're back early!”

Lance froze. This was someone Keith knew?

“Aren't you happy to see me?”

“Yes! Yeah, of course I am-”

Keith's voice got cut off and muffled by, Lance assumed, a deep embrace. The other voice had been low and calm, a male voice that carried through the apartment. 

“... I'm glad to see you,” Keith said, and it was so awfully soft and affectionate that Lance's blood ran cold. Did he... sleep with a married man? No way. That was absolutely the last thing he ever wanted to do. He wasn’t a homewrecker!

But then again, it wasn’t entirely his fault. Keith had never mentioned the fact he was out of bounds. Had he? No, Lance would have remembered. 

“Woah, your kitchen is actually clean for once. What’s going on?”

“I, uh... wanted to make things look nice for you.”

“That’s very sweet, but you never do that. I always have to clean up.”

Lance paced back and forth while this conversation took place, nervously tearing at his hair. Should he come clean and jump out the bedroom with a “surprise, I slept with your man!”, and run away before the dude can swing at him? Should he try and clear some space under the bed and hide there until the man goes away?

What if he never does? What if this man is here to stay the night and Lance is trapped here for another twenty four hours?

“I just wanted to.”

“Alright, which drug is it.”

“What??”

“Ritalin? Adderall? No... Keith, not...”

“I’m not buying drugs illegally!”

There was the sound of heavy footsteps. Lance froze. 

“Hmm. Your bathroom is still a mess.”

“Stop judging my house! I’m not taking drugs!”

“I’m teasing you-”

The talking cut off suddenly. Lance pressed his ear to the door. Nothing happened for thirty seconds. 

“Keith... do you wanna talk about it?”

Keith’s voice was immediately defensive. “Talk about what? I don’t understand.”

“Then I’m sorry to break it to you, but you clearly have a nasty vampire infestation somewhere in your room.”

The hickeys. Lance nearly slapped himself in the face. 

“It’s nothing-”

“Anyone important?”

Lance nearly died on the spot. Oh, he was so dead. This dude sounded calm and concerned, but Lance knew types like that, calm one moment and throwing punches the next. 

“No.”

Ouch. Lance rolled his eyes. 

“A one night stand?”

“No!” Another moment of silence. “Yes. It was meaningless.”

Double ouch. 

“You don’t seem too sure.”

He was big pissed. Big, big pissed. This Shiro dude was actually going to murder him. Trust Lance to get caught in some kind of big gay French farce because  _ he just couldn’t keep his pants on ever at all. _

“It’s really nothing. Nothing.”

“... if you say so.”

Shiro sounded tired. Holy shit. Maybe Keith was a serial cheater, going out to bars and picking up dudes by seducing them to old ABBA songs. Lance had never suspected that the office dark horse was, in fact, a dark horse. Damn it, he was kind of hot too-

Woah, hold up. 

“Alright, I’m going to make some coffee. You want some?”

“Oh, sure, just invite yourself to use my kitchen, Shiro. I don’t want any. In fact, could you come back later? I was about to tidy my bedroom and you’re interrupting my work flow.”

Lance did actually facepalm this time. Keith may as well have pointed directly to the bedroom and said “hey there’s a dude in there!”. 

“Do you want some help in there?”

Holy shit, was Shiro actually a dumbass? 

“No! No, please, you already do so much.”

“No, I really think I should help.” The footsteps came towards the bedroom door. Lance realised his mistake - Shiro wasn’t dumb at all. Shiro was terrifying. “Sounds like there might be a lot of stuff to clear out in there.” Lance scrambled backwards to the bed, eyes roaming around the bedroom for somewhere to hide but coming up completely blank. The closet was too small. The bed had too much stuff under it. There was nowhere else. 

“No, actually, I really want some coffee.”

“Let’s just get it over with, Keith. The longer you put it off, the worse it’ll be.”

Lance was stuck in a life or death situation with very few options. It’s not that he wasn’t a resourceful man - he could really use anything in a pinch to help get him out of said pinch - but right now his resource count was stuck firmly at zero. Zilch. Nada. The only thing Lance had ever been able to fall back on was his stupid asshole motormouth and his complete inability to think before he acted.

Given that nothing else was available, his survival instincts kicked in. Before he could think, before his brain had a slither of a chance to insert a modicum of rationality into his actions, he was striding across the bedroom and throwing open the door to reveal-

Well, Keith was there, somewhere, mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed.  

The thing was, he was hidden behind a mountain of a man. 

Keith wasn’t small. Lance had caught himself checking out the way Keith’s arms flexed under his sensible work shirts many a time, a slave as usual to a hot bod with a pair of smoking guns, and it was clear the dude did some serious workouts. 

This dude - Shiro. He made Keith look like a fucking _twink._

“Oh god,” Lance said, suddenly acutely aware of his own mortality. There was no way he could say anything to this man. He had to say he was literally nothing else than Keith’s bad decision at 3 am in a nightclub. 

Shiro looked as stunned as Lance felt. 

“Hello,” he said. “And you are-?”

“I-” Lance began, brain a fog of confusion, pulling random words out from the past ten minutes, grasping for survival, “I sell Keith Ritalin. I’m Keith’s drug dealer.”

There was the distinctive slap of Keith’s hand landing squarely on his own face.

**Author's Note:**

> like usually i will jump through hoops to write the most fantasy/sci fi shit i can so how the fuck did i take a sci fi show and turn it into the most boring au  
> i really didn't plan this beyond "oh they work in an office" yeah good job me. well played you shit idiot


End file.
